The Gay Agenda, Part 5

Sex Ed.

Golly, attendance is certainly up today! And I think I even see some potential breeders in our midst, although they are trying to ‘blend in’ by wearing… what the hell is that, young man? A Calvin Klein tank top? Okay, helpful hint: Look around you and what do you see? Yes, we—meaning the fashionably ‘mo—know that any cK emblems are to be worn under clothing and not as clothing. Boxer briefs, yes. T-shirts, only to keep the sweat stains off the silk. Never, I repeat, never show your Calvins to anyone you don’t want to sleep with.
“But I’m very happy to see one and all here, if only to dispel some long-held myths and legends about the whole man-on-man or woman-on-woman sex thing. The mere presence of a het or two in this particular class warms my cockles, and I hope you’ll go out and spread the gospel of erotic and sensual well-being to all your scared little friends.
“For the remainder of the class, please refer to me as Master. I certainly don’t mean to imply that all we’ll be covering here is the old, reliable whips, chains and garter belts, heavens to Betsy no! But it amuses me no end to think of anyone being my personal sex slave and we all need a little fantasy in our lives now and again, don’t we?


“Excellent. Now, you’ll have noticed that we have a few special guests joining our discussion this morning. These are, you should excuse the pun, sexperts in various vocations who are here to jump into the fray should one of you gutter-minded little heathens come up with a question that my almost-Virginal lifestyle cannot accommodate without gagging or laughing or running off to the bathroom for a quickie. Please feel free to ask anything, no matter how tasteless or ignorant you may think it is, and we’ll try to give you honest and, more importantly, correct answers.
“Okee dokee, who’s first? Yes, Brent?”
“Hi, Master.”
“Chills. Thank you, Brent.”
“My pleasure.”
“If only, but you’re too young for me.”
“Age is a state of mind.”
“But Viagra isn’t, and my insurance doesn’t cover it. Your question?”
“I was wondering about butt sex.”
“Quaint. What was you wondering, in particular?”
“I’ve heard the expressions ‘Top’ and ‘Bottom’ and was wondering what they referred to, and also, is there a ‘Side’?”
“I note your smirk and therefore assume you already know the answer to this rather primary question but I will answer it anyway for the benefit of those who have not figured it out on their own already. A ‘Top’ refers to a man who thinks he is too masculine and powerful and sort of macho to be on the receiving end, as it were. Tops are normally overbearing, swaggering, cocky jerk-offs with inflated opinions of their equipment. A Bottom, conversely, prefers the pleasures of being fucked, and fucked hard and deep and true. Bottoms are usually sweet, pouty sorts with a need to please and the ability to do so.”
“You’re a Bottom, then, er, Master?”
“I call myself Versatile. You can call me anytime. Rimshot! Okay, yes, the darling lad in the James Perse Ringer Tee?”
“Hello, I’m Johnson.”
“Johnson is your first name?”
“It’s my only name.”
“How very Cher of you. Your question?”
“While we’re talking butt sex, I was wondering about, well, I mean, does it ever happen that… That while you’re… what I mean is, what happens if, you know, since the butt is involved and you’re… The… When…”
“Allow me to paraphrase; What happens if you have a bowel movement while engaged in anal sex? Is that the gist of it? Right, well, sex isn’t at all what you imagine it to be, and it’s also exactly what you’re hoping for. Sex has no soundtrack. Sex is awkward and sweaty and you get tangled up in the sheets and you hit your teeth together too hard and you pull on something you shouldn’t and your arm goes to sleep. Sex is wonderful and feels good and sometimes everything works out just right and no one has to sleep on the wet spot. That second part? Very rare. And if it comes to that, chances are you’re not having as much fun as you could be, assuming fun was part of the equation, and it should be, definitely.
“So what happens when things go wrong? You clean it all up. You apologize, if you feel like it, or laugh, you do inappropriate things at inappropriate times and you put the sheets in the washer and everyone moves right along. I sense there’s a lot of fear out there about the whole sex thing. ‘What if I do it wrong? What if I’m not hot? What if I take a shit? What if I don’t get hard? What if I have to pee?’
“Let me just quote a good friend and sexual philosopher. This is the advice he gave me, and I pass it on to you in hopes that you’ll do the same; You can’t do it wrong. If you have doubts or questions, ask. ‘Does that feel good?’ ‘Do you like that?’ ‘Could you move a little to the left?’ ‘Is that your tongue?’ There are no stupid questions. There are no stupid answers. If you’re doing something physically and you want more, ask for it. If they say no, be a good sport and do something that pleases them. Share, talk, touch, move, and don’t worry so much about it. You’ll have lots of chances and sometimes the chocolate chip cookies get burned. Sometimes, they’re a little dry, sometimes they’re still raw inside, sometimes they’re perfect. Sex is about ‘sometimes.’ Relax and enjoy the ride. Okay? Next?”
“Hi, my name’s Kelly. I’m not sure this is the correct…”
“Ask away, Kelly. There are no secrets between queers.”
“This is really about dating. So, like, when it’s a straight couple, it’s assumed the man will pay. But when it’s two guys or two girls, who pays? And also, like, what about roles in general? Like, who gets called the husband and who’s the wife?”
“How refreshing not to have to talk about my ass for a change, thank you Kelly! Cute bob, by the way. Well, what you’re trying to do there is apply old world mores to a new world. Man roles versus women roles and so forth. No harm, no fowl, as they say, but let me be blunt; Fuck the rules. Those are not our rules. Someone else made them up for some other group of people who are not, as they say, us. So who pays? Maybe you both do. Maybe you share. Me, I tend to think ‘he who asks, pays.’ If I made the date, I pay the bill. If he insists on sharing the cost, that’s okay by me.
“As to part two of your question, two guys who are married are a couple, and they’re both husbands. Assuming two guys could get married, which they sort of can’t, but let’s pretend we live in a world that makes sense just while we’re here. If a guy wears a wedding dress to his own nuptials, he is still a groom. Honestly, Kelly? I’m making a lot of this up as I go, and I think we’re all still trying to hard to conform in the hopes of acceptance based on ‘fitting in’ or something. But we don’t fit in to some things and we never will, so let’s ignore them and have our own kind of fun.”
“Hello, my name’s Harvey.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, Harvey, what’s your question?”
“Is a blowjob considered sex? And what’s a Glory Hole? Do I have one? Where do I get one?”
“Have you had a blow job, Harv?”
“I think so.”
“You’d know.”
“Then maybe not.”
“A blow job is when someone performs oral sex on your genitals, and I know that it probably should be called a suck job, but blowing is actually a nice little… erm, anyway, is that helpful?”
“Oh. Then no.”
“Fair enough. People want to put labels on sex and in the straight world, it takes penetration before it’s considered ‘having sex.’ Fellatio, cunnilingus, analingus, I guess those are foreplay or something. But until the plug goes into the socket, you’re still in Virgin territory. Again, you can elect to follow these alleged rules or decide that whatever turns you on physically with another person, that’s sex. It’s just labels and finger-pointing, Harvey, so don’t worry your pretty little head about it. You’ll have enough going on up in your noggin when it comes to it without wondering if what you’re doing is sex or something else.
“Now, Glory Holes are another animal altogether. Basically, you stick your dick through a hole and someone else plays with it. It’s usually anonymous and that’s part of the fun for some people, the detachment of the act and the penis from the person. Personally, I don’t get it, but I don’t go passing judgment on someone else’s idea of a good time if they let me alone—or, rather, not alone, preferably—with my chaps and cowboy hat and Patsy Cline CDs. One thing I’ve learned is you’ll never know what you like until you try it. Goes for food, goes for fun. Yes, the charming young lady with the black lipstick?”
“Hello, my name is David.”
“Oops. Sorry, the tiara threw me.”
“S’okay. I was wondering about love.”
“Not something I’m overly familiar with, but I’ll give it a shot. What was you wondering?”
“What is it? I mean, it seems like everyone gets focused on fucking. On getting between the sheets and getting it on, but I want something… else. I want something more. I want….”
“You want it all. You want to feel good inside and out. You want him to stay. You want kisses on street corners and hand-holding in the park and watching sunsets from rooftops. You want to instantly cheer up when you hear his voice on the phone. You want his arms around you when you’re asleep and you want to grow accustomed to the smell of him, and the taste and feel and presence of him. You want him to be the first thing you think of when you wake up, and you want him to be thinking about you. You want the sex to be not just about the sex, you want the sex to be about being with someone as close as you can. To be a part of them, and please them, and be with them all the time, in every way you can be. Is that what you want?
“I’d love to tell you that it’s going to happen, and that you’ll get it all, and you’ll live in a story with a happy ending. I’d love to tell you that love awaits around every corner, full, deeply-felt, wreckless love, love so full and true that it fills you up like a swelling ball of light and shines so brightly that everyone can see it, and you share it with everyone, but especially with that person you love, and who loves you back.
“And what I will tell you, David, and Harv and Kelly and Johnson and Brent and Steve and Marilyn and Stan and Babs and Carlotta and Jerry and everyone else… is that it can happen. I have seen it. It’s out there. Love. In all its rich and heady and overwhelming beauty.
“‘What is love?’ our pancaked friend has asked. What is this thing that people spend lifetimes searching out? Where does it come from, and with whom, and when?
“Love is everywhere, you silly thing. Love is here, in this room. Love is waiting, with unending patience and overwhelming capacity. It’s beyond the flesh, you see, buried so deeply that you can’t easily see it. It isn’t the way you feel or think or what you believe or do or say. It can’t categorized or monetized or Pasteurized. It simply is. Simple?
“They will tell you that it’s a hard-fought battle, and they will tell you that it never lasts, and they will tell you that it hurts. All true, friends, all true. And love never feels the same twice. It’s not a cashmere sweater you wrap around your shoulders or your favorite pair of boots. It won’t always fit exactly right and it won’t always look perfect. Love is a cup of coffee. It is sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet, sometimes you anticipate how it will taste by its scent and it will fool you and be something different.
“But love… love is worth it. For all the trials by fire you’ll have to endure, and the lies and the cheats and the lovers who spurn you, it’s worth it. For moments at a time, for looks you cherish and that time by the fire and the dinner with that wine you can never remember the name of and lying there, in bed, between the sheets, beside the one you love, their breathing, their weight and warmth and presence. All worth it.”
“But what is it?”
“I have no bloody clue.”

November 21, 2003

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